


Beg me

by October_rust



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Enemy Mine - Freeform, Humiliation, Knifeplay, M/M, Power Play, Unwilling Arousal, captor vs captive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22682659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/October_rust/pseuds/October_rust
Summary: Iorveth captures Roche and keeps him as his prisoner.
Relationships: Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Comments: 12
Kudos: 136





	Beg me

Roche drifted back to consciousness. He inhaled carefully, but his ribs immediately flared up – some of them bruised, others most likely cracked. His arms ached too, twisted and bound behind his back. A jagged rock wall was digging into his spine, so he shifted to get more comfortable in a half-lying, half-sitting position. No chain mail, no gambeson, just thin linen shirt and breeches. They'd left him his boots, at least. 

They'd also bothered to patch up the arrow wound near his shoulder and slather it with some salve, he discovered next. Fucking Squirrels wanted to keep him alive. 

Images and sounds flashed in his memory. The Squirrels' jeers and laughter after they'd sprung the trap and started slaughtering Roche's men, cutting them down one by one. The screams, the curses, the twang of bowstrings, blood spurting everywhere. But it had been Roche's mistake alone. He'd led his men straight into the Squirrels' ambush, hadn't he? Too arrogant, too sure of himself. 

And his men had paid the price.

The surge of anger grounded him, made him blink and take stock of his surroundings. His gaze swept over the dimly-lit cave. One way out, upended crates serving as a makeshift table, a narrow cot strewn with furs, and, by the fire pit, perching on a stool and examining Roche's sword …

Iorveth.

Of course.

The elf had already shed his leathers and mail. His face, however, was still streaked with war paint, and he had his bow close at hand, propped up against the wall. Otherwise, he appeared completely at ease; his long fingers were idly running over the hilt and the edge of Roche's sword, tracing the patterns created by the flickering firelight and shadows.

“Crude,” he said at last. “It suits you, dh'oine.”

And the pointy-eared bastard dared to sound like a bored princeling presiding over a throne room in some fancy elven palace. 

Well, all those fancy elven palaces were nothing more than ruins and rubble now.

“Crude,” Roche agreed. “But it's good steel and it gets the job done. Served me pretty well when I wiped out that commando of yours. How many years ago was that?”

“Almost four.” Iorveth sheathed the sword and placed it next to the bow. Then he stood up and stretched to his full height, his movements graceful and deceptively languid. “It makes you proud of yourself, I see. Even though you slaughtered us in our sleep. Even though you won only thanks to your treachery and --“

“Treachery?” Roche barked a laugh, ignoring the dull throbbing in his ribs. “Oh, please, are you going to lecture me about treachery? About honour? That's rich coming from you, squirrel.”

“Careful, dh'oine.” Iorveth walked over to him in soft, measured steps, and loomed over Roche. There was something eerily predatory about the elf; awash in the ruddy light, the scar bisecting his cheek seemed to pulse with the colours of freshly spilled blood.

A lesser man – perhaps a wiser man – would have heeded the warning, and not provoked further, especially after having glimpsed the dagger at Iorveth's belt. But, fuck it all, Roche refused to cower. The rage and grief bubbling up inside him was too great to rein in. 

“You, elf,” he said, meeting Iorveth's gaze with all the contempt he could muster. “Are a common bandit. And you deserve to be treated as such. I've seen what you and your Squirrels do to peasants in the villages you raid.”

Iorveth merely shook his head in mock exasperation. The next instant, he grabbed at Roche's injured shoulder and squeezed. 

Pain exploded, blotting out every coherent thought. Roche choked on a howl, bit his lip so hard he tasted iron. It felt as if white-hot spikes were clamping onto his flesh, ripping barely mended tissues to a bloody pulp. 

Just as abruptly, the waves of agony disappeared. Roche resurfaced – shivering, disoriented, with black spots dancing in front of his eyes.

“Were you saying something?” Iorveth's calm voice sounded very close.

Far too close for comfort.

Instinct took over and Roche reared back. Or rather tried to – only to freeze when the haze of confusion cleared enough for him to register other sensations: firm thighs caging his own, cold steel resting against his jugular, strong fingers still clasping his arm. 

“Well?” Iorveth prompted, looking at him with dark amusement.

“Yes. You are a thief and a murderer,” Roche said, managing to keep his tone even. “A noose is too good for scum like you.”

Iorveth's grip tightened in warning. “Scum, am I? And what are you, Vernon Roche?”

“It doesn't matter what I am,” Roche gritted out. He could feel sweat gathering at his temples. His muscles were already coiling in anticipation of more torment. “What matters is that I protect people from you --“

“Oh?” Iorveth leaned forward, crowding Roche against the stone wall; the dagger dug a bit into the soft skin at Roche's throat. “So you are the noble protector of the smallfolk. But do you know what these good Temerian citizens whisper behind your back?”

“I don't care what they say about me,” Roche growled, trying not to flinch at the proximity. 

Iorveth merely smiled and brought his face closer to Roche's. “They call you Foltest's rabid dog. They claim that you love torturing your prisoners and bathing in their blood.” 

All true, in a way. The Blue Stripes did kill and maim at the king's command. Necessary evil, those orders carried out for the good of the realm to the accompaniment of screams and pleading for mercy. 

“They also say you'd gladly whore yourself out for your king.” The elf's lips peeled back even more, revealing sharp teeth. “And somehow this doesn't surprise me in the slightest. You really would debase yourself in the vilest manner possible, right, dh'oine?”

The retort was already on the tip of Roche's tongue, but something in the way Iorveth was staring at him made him swallow the words down. Disdain was familiar, yes, as was that cold elven pride, but underneath it all …

Heat and hunger.

No.

It was too absurd. Impossible. Roche wanted to laugh, dismiss it all as a weird fever dream. However, he couldn't stop himself from jerking away in yet another futile attempt to put some space between himself and the elf. 

“A dog and a whore,” Iorveth mused, still studying Roche with that awful, searing gaze. “I heard about the massacre in Mahakam. You butchered so many innocent women and children.”

“I only killed traitors, not --”

The blade slid lower, to the hollow between his collarbones, effectively silencing Roche again. The tip pierced the skin, ever so lightly, and Roche clenched his fists. The ropes didn't budge in the slightest. 

Then, Iorveth drew back, adjusted his grip, and brought the dagger down in one vicious slash, ripping Roche's shirt open from the collar to the waist. 

Panic burst, blind and overwhelming. For a brief moment, Roche was certain that Iorveth would finish the game here and now, take his revenge and gut Roche like a pig. A fitting end for Roche, perhaps.

“No, dh'oine,” Iorveth said, as if reading his thoughts. “I'm not going to kill you. You're more valuable to me as a hostage than as a corpse.”

Roche's accursed temper flared up. “My king won't pay you any ransom. He doesn't negotiate with terrorists.” 

“Is that so? Then maybe I should find another use for you.”

The dagger dipped into Roche's navel, before it climbed up, nicking him playfully across the bruised ribs. Higher, higher still, leaving a trail of tingling fire in its wake. Another deft flick of Iorveth's wrist, and the blade changed direction, gliding over Roche's collarbone, close to the arrow wound.

Roche stiffened, braced himself as best he could. 

But the agony didn't erupt. Instead, more shallow cuts bloomed all over his chest; the steel felt blessedly cool on his heated, sweat-slick skin. Time seemed to stretch, as Roche waited, wary, his thoughts scattering and whirling chaotically.

“I have half a mind to carve this out,” Iorveth said, tapping the dagger against the Temerian crest outlined next to Roche's galloping heart. “Ah, well.”

He contended himself with applying more force. The burn intensified; the dagger sliced through the inked lilies, painting them in red and wrenching a ragged hiss from Roche. Was the bastard writing something? Branding Roche with his name?

Despite his efforts to focus, he couldn't tell. Everything was muddled, narrowed down to the slow, maddening drag of the blade. Roche sucked in a shuddering breath, willed his muscles not to resist. Yet still they jumped and twitched, as swirls and whorls were lazily etched down his sides and abdomen.

“You've gone awfully quiet,” said Iorveth. “Come, Roche, where's that sharp tongue of yours?”

“Go plough yourself,” Roche grunted. The words sounded weak, unsteady. He blinked to clear his swimming vision. Cloying, sickly-sweet pain was thrumming through every fiber of his body, caressing and promising oblivion.

The elf glanced down at him from beneath lowered eyelashes – long and lush, Roche noticed, dumbfounded – and the corners of his mouth quirked up in a mocking grin.

“There you are,” he praised.

And, still holding Roche's gaze, he ground his hips forward.

It was enough; pleasure sparked, swept along Roche's spine, pooled hot and heavy in the pit of his stomach. Devastating like a wildfire, it quashed his tattered pride and reason: his thighs splayed open in invitation, while, guided by mindless instinct, his hips rose up to meet Iorveth's.

“Humans,” Iorveth scoffed. “Primitive, rutting animals.”

Roche's cheeks flushed with shame. He turned his face away, closed his eyes.

“At least we can get it up,” he shot back. “Unlike your oh-so-superior kind.”

Alarm warred with want when, instead of answering, Iorveth gave another shallow thrust. The bastard was a hypocrite, too, because Roche could feel the unmistakable heat and hardness rubbing against his own.

“Stop,” he croaked out.

Strong fingers grasped his chin, tilted his head back to Iorveth. Roche kept his eyes closed, tried to think about the dagger still scraping along his left flank. But his blood was rushing in his veins, heedless of the danger. 

A callused thumb stroked his lower lip. Then, hot mouth descended on his neck, grazing the straining tendons, and Iorveth's voice, low and commanding, uttered two words:

“Beg me.”


End file.
